


sweet dreams (are made of this)

by lypiphaera



Category: Kushiel's Legacy - Jacqueline Carey, Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: Thrawn Trilogy - Timothy Zahn
Genre: (attempted pastiche at least), Bloodplay, Blow Jobs, Bondage, Crossover, Edgeplay, Electricity, F/M, Fictional Religion & Theology, Forced Orgasm, Knifeplay, Maledom/Femsub, Masochism, Nipple Play, POV First Person, Pastiche, Politics, Spanking, mild xeno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2020-11-26 12:06:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20929946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lypiphaera/pseuds/lypiphaera
Summary: Phèdre nó Delaunay seeks a traitor. Grand Admiral Thrawn knows where she is.Really, there is only one way this can go.





	sweet dreams (are made of this)

**Author's Note:**

> When your two fandom interests collide...
> 
> If you aren't familiar with one of these canons, a little summary of each:
> 
> For Kushiel fans, Thrawn is a Star Wars character. This is set after the original Star Wars trilogy, after the collapse of the Empire and during the building of the New Republic. That's all you really need to know.
> 
> Star Wars fans, Phèdre is a character from an alt-history France where she has been gifted by the gods to feel pain as pleasure. She is a courtesan and a spy. (It's a lot more complex than that, but I think that's the core of what you really need to know; everything else is explained in the fic...I hope.)
> 
> Also, yes, I _did_ take the title from that song, thanks for asking.

I am no stranger to throne rooms, nor to royalty, alien or otherwise, and no matter what this alien called himself — for though he took the title Grand Admiral, he was Emperor in all but name — that was all he was: alien royalty. I daresay I have lived through enough hardship and seen enough crowns rise and fall that I am no longer intimidated by kings or queens other than my own, to whom I owe both love and loyalty.

Still, when the Grand Admiral's bodyguard, a grievous-looking figure indeed, escorted me into his presence, a shiver rippled up my spine and I knelt, years of training in the arts of obeisance taking over in the presence of this man, this alien who radiated power and had the unmistakeable aura of command. No scion of Kushiel he, but my skin prickled nonetheless underneath his gaze.

I gazed up at him from under my lashes. He sat unmoving upon his command chair, fingers steepled, gazing back at me with unreadable eyes. And what eyes they were! They glowed a fierce crimson, and bore no trace of iris or pupil. His expression was smooth as glass, his brow uncreased, the set of his mouth neutral. His skin was the shade of the sky in the mountains on a cloudless day, set off by his crisp white uniform. Black gloves were on his hands, and black boots on his feet. He bore no adornment, no jewelry or crown. It was uncommon to flaunt wealth or beauty thusly in the Empire-that-was, I knew, but this man was reshaping the remnants of the Empire in his own image; I had expected him to take pride in that. Instead, he wore the uniform and rank plaque of the old Emperor and professed to fight in his name.

I looked into his eyes and knew better. Grand Admiral Thrawn had ambitions far beyond those of revenge or reuniting his fallen Empire.

"Comtesse Phèdre nó Delaunay de Montrève," he said at last. His pronunciation was impeccable, his voice smooth and well-modulated. "You have come before me to ask a favor, have you not?"

"Yes, my lord admiral." My voice came out strong and steady.

He flicked a gloved hand in my direction.

"Then speak," he said simply. I bowed my head, and obeyed.

"I come seeking a traitor to Terre d'Ange. It is an intra-system matter, nothing else," I said, temporizing slightly. "I have traced her path through our home system and further, and it has led me to your territory. With your grace's permission, I wish to pursue her further, within the bounds of Imperial space."

His eyebrow had cocked sardonically when I addressed him with the honorific before his expression smoothed out again. But he had liked it, I could tell. I filed that piece of information away for future use.

"Tell me of this traitor," he said, steepling his fingers again.

So I did. I explained the saga of Melisande Shahrizai: how she had crossed and double-crossed the scions of Terre d'Ange and led a foreign invasion force into our space, all for the sake of the game of crowns. How she had sold me into slavery on a distant world, counting on its isolation and cruelties to leave me dead. How she had left nothing but blood, death, and sorrow in her wake, and how after she had been found out, captured, and imprisoned, she had escaped in the small hours of the night to a shuttle that had taken her off-planet and into the great abyss of interstellar space.

He heard this all impassively. I watched his face as I spoke, marking the subtle changes of his expression. He was hard to read; I had never before realized how much I relied on the eyes to catch the telltales of a thought, and his alien gaze was indecipherable to me. Yet I could almost catch glimpses of what he was thinking.

Almost.

"And so the trail has led here," I finished at last.

"Among my fleet?" The question was neutral, tinged with faint irony. "This Melisande Shahrizai you speak of is no warrior, from what you say."

"Not quite among your fleet," I said. "Rumor has it she fled to Jondquar. I ask nothing of you except safe passage through Imperial space."

"That is untrue, Comtesse," he said mildly. There was power behind the words, power and self-assuredness, as if by his simple statement, he could make it true. I swallowed hard. "You want me to allow a foreign agent and her crew into Imperial territory, based on nothing but a story." He arched an eyebrow. "A story that could just as easily be a lie, might I add. And you offer me nothing in return. Why, then, should I do this for you?"

"Her majesty Ysandre de la Courcel will give you aught you desire," I said steadily. "Providing it doesn't conflict with the sovereignity of Terre d'Ange."

"Of course," he said dryly. "And yet I hear that you and the Queen aren't on speaking terms at the moment."

I opened my mouth to reply, then paused. If he had heard that — a piece of D'Angeline gossip from the Deep Core — he must have heard the story of Melisande, who had shaken worlds with her actions. Yet he acted like he had never heard of her. My intuition flickered.

He was hiding her.

Thrawn watched me with a slight smile twisting his lips. I could see him tracking my thoughts, a profoundly disconcerting sensation. I had only experienced it a handful of times before, from Melisande herself. He knew, then, that he had overplayed his hand; he had done it on purpose, in fact, to see my reaction. He was playing with me.

I should have been angry. Instead, I luxuriated against my will in the sweet pain of being outplayed, and felt my body grow langourous under his gaze. In defiance of my own reaction, I lifted my chin and met his fiery eyes.

"Yes, that's true," I said, playing along. "But I have something else to offer."

His brows rose.

"What?" he asked with interest. Interest, I thought, in more than the goods Ysandre might be able to offer his Empire.

I stood, drawing on all the grace I had ever learned in the Night Court and elsewhere, and put my hands to my stays. His eyes flickered over my body — so I thought, though I could not see exactly where he was looking — and his lips pressed together as I let my russet gown fall to my feet, baring an expanse of creamy skin, pert breasts and full hips ready for his mouth or the lash, my marque, cunningly wrought, weaving in streaks of black and scarlet across the smooth skin of my back. I turned slowly, my skin prickling with the humiliation of selling myself to this cruel warlord, with the pleasure of serving Naamah the way I was meant to.

"Men and women have gone to war for a night in my bed," I said simply as I turned back to face him. "This I offer you."

He considered it.

"No," he said after only a few seconds had passed, as I knew he would. He was not Quincel de Morbhan, to give away his favor so easily. I have never misjudged a patron, and I knew what it would take to goad him to say yes. "No, I don't think so, Comtesse."

He leaned back in his chair. "Let's dispense with these games, shall we? I know you have the ear of your queen, just as you know I have the location of Melisande Shahrizai."

I controlled my expression with an effort; I hadn't been sure until just now.

"She is your ally, then?" I asked. He gave me a dry look, and did not deign to answer.

"You said Ysandre would give me whatever I asked in exchange for Melisande," he continued. His face went hard. "Terre d'Ange possesses several colony worlds on the edge of the Deep Core. I want the agricultural rights to those planets."

"Agricultural rights?" I said in surprise. I had expected somewhat more. He treated me to a thin smile.

"A navy cannot survive off passion for their cause alone," he told me. "I need resources. Ysandre can give them to me. That's what I require, for the coordinates you seek."

"And the inhabitants of those worlds?" I asked.

"They may stay," he said. "Or go. Whichever you prefer. I know those planets are sparsely populated; it doesn't matter to me what you do with your people. I will place my own there."

Had he come up with this plan in the scant hours since my ship had hailed his, or had he planned to challenge the Queen for those colony worlds before I even arrived?

All I knew was that I had greatly misjudged the mind of this alien. I had expected him to be another Waldemar Selig, a barbarian with aspirations of grandeur — intelligent, but still a barbarian — and instead I had found another Melisande.

No wonder I wanted him so badly.

"It can be done, my lord," I whispered, over the beating of bronze wings that was steadily rising in my ears. He raised one finger.

"I'm not done," he said slowly. His gaze flickered over my naked body again, evaluating. He said nothing.

I stepped forward. In the corner, his bodyguard shifted, restless, but Thrawn held up one hand to still him. Another step, then another, until I stood before him, close enough to touch. He eyed me in silence, face expressionless — but he was gripping the arm of his chair tightly enough to make his knuckles go white.

"Please," I whispered, and knelt before him. I pressed my lips against his boot, opening my mouth slightly to let my tongue flicker across its surface. "Please, my lord."

He shifted, placing his boot on the back of my neck and pushing me inexorably down, down to the floor, until my forehead touched the cold metal, forcing my back into an aching arch. I moved my legs to better accommodate the position and heard the wet sound of my folds parting, belying my arousal. Thrawn did too; I heard his indrawn breath. But when he spoke, his voice was even.

"Agricultural rights," he said thoughtfully. "And I will also take what you offered initially."

"A night in my bed?" I asked. My voice came out breathy and strange; I relished the pressure of his boot on my neck, the exquisite humiliation of his watchful gaze as I prostrated myself to this foreign ruler.

"In mine," he corrected. "But you understand the concept."

"In exchange for Melisande."

"I don't know exactly where she is," he said candidly. "But I can tell you where she last was."

I closed my eyes and listened to the timbre of his voice, that smooth and sophisticated voice. Was he lying when he said he didn't know where she was?

I couldn't tell.

I took a deep breath and cast my fate into the hands of the gods: Kushiel, whose dart pricked me with exquisite cruelty, and Naamah, who spurred me on with throbbing desire.

"It's agreed, my lord," I whispered.

"Good." The pressure on my neck eased, and he sat back in his chair. "Put on your clothes and go. I'll contact you when it is time."

I didn't think I would have to wait long for his summons.

Fashions being what they are, few noble-born ladies are able to dress without attendents, but I am not noble-born, having earned my title as an adult. I made quick work of it. While I did, Thrawn summoned the minutiae of wartime, holograms hovering around him: star charts, supply manifests, correspondence with his captains. The Aurebesh letters were hard to read backwards, though I managed, seeking any information I could get. He saw me looking and narrowed his eyes.

"Go," he said dangerously, and I took a sharp breath at the tone of his voice.

"My lord," I said, curtseying, and I went.

Oh, Joscelin was going to hate this.

* * *

Joscelin did indeed hate it, but I was ready nonetheless when Thrawn's summons came.

In the cramped ship's cabin, I did what I could to make myself presentable for an Emperor-but-in-name: clad in a gown of deepest green silk, I wound my hair in a lover's-knot, a hairstyle easy to make and, more importantly, easy to pull loose, letting a few stray tendrils float free along my soft skin. Carmine, I touched to my lips, and kohl to my lashes. Simple slippers on my feet, and my _sangoire_ cloak draped across my shoulders, the deep red a contrast to the gown, like blood on leaves at midnight.

I gazed at myself critically in the mirror. It was not my best work; but it would do.

Aboard the _Chimaera_, I held my head high as I was escorted to our assignation — not the command room this time, but his personal quarters. Murmurs followed me as I walked, and I wondered if the men around me knew what I had done, or what their commander wanted of me. The Empire, I recalled, frowned upon interspecies relations. So did Terre d'Ange, but at least there, my bargain would have been understood.

I did not think the Empire was so lenient.

So, murmurs and glances behind me; and in front of me, a solid metal door and my fate. The lieutenant leading my escort rapped on it smartly, and took a startled step back when it swept open to reveal the Admiral's alien bodyguard, sneering at all of us.

"You." It — he? — pointed to me. "Come in."

I obeyed.

Once inside, I blinked as my eyes adjusted to the dim lighting. Then I gazed around in awe. The room was studded with holograms of artwork on pedastals, glowing faintly. _D'Angeline_ artwork: here the statue of Elua that stood in his temple in the City, there a piece from the _Trois Mille Joies_, a depiction of two lovers writhing together in pleasure, there a fresco from the ceiling of the Palace. I stood there dumbly as the door swished shut behind me, tears in my eyes as I stared at the art of my homeworld, from which I had been gone too long.

I almost didn't notice Thrawn himself, standing in the back of the room with a glass of liquor in his hand, observing me, but my body was drawn to his like a planet in orbit of a black hole, and my eyes found him even in the dark. He met my gaze and raised his glass to me in a sardonic toast.

"Rukh," he said, addressing the bodyguard — I cemented the name in my memory, in case it would be useful later — "leave us."

I could feel Rukh's resentment, but he did as he was told, leaving me alone with the Grand Admiral of the Galactic Empire.

"Do you like it?" he asked, gesturing with his glass at the artwork. "I have studied D'Angeline culture at length; this is only a part of my collection."

"Have you, my lord admiral?" His words made me nervous; I had heard stories of him invading worlds based off analysis of a single piece of their art, but hadn't credited the tales. "What do you find so intriguing?"

He tilted his head thoughtfully as he poured me a glass of the same liquor he was drinking, offering it to me as if we were equals. I took it, and sipped from it. Spicy-sweet and stronger than anything I'd had before, it burned on its way down. It hurt. His eyes were on me as I swallowed and I knew he was enjoying the sight of that slight pain, the way my eyes widened.

"There is much that is intriguing about Terre d'Ange," he said, his eyes still on me, and not on the artwork. I shivered under his gaze, becoming very aware of the soft velvet of my _sangoire_ cloak on my arms. I did not want its delicate touch; I wanted his harsh fingers around my wrists; I wanted bruises. "But at the moment, what I am concerned with is _you_."

I could have feigned ignorance, but I sensed that would only cause irritation.

"You've read the poem," I said softly.

"Mighty Kushiel, of rod and weal, late of the brazen portals," he quoted in flawless D'Angeline, and gave me an ungentle smile. "Yes, I've read it, _anguissette_. Tell me, do you really believe in your gods?"

"I do," I said firmly. His eyebrows rose.

"Indeed?" He set down his glass, and tugged off one glove. "I suppose you must, if only to justify your love of pain. Kushiel's curse, is it not?"

"Not a curse," I whispered as he stroked my cheek with the tips of his ungloved fingers. His skin was very cool against mine, his fingertips calloused: warrior's hands. "Merely his gift."

"I am curious to see how true the dart strikes," he said. I braced myself for a slap, ready for it, craving it; none came. Instead, he cupped my face in his hand and ran his thumb across my lower lip. I parted my lips and sucked it into my mouth, tongue playing along its length, peering from under my lashes at his impassive face.

He pressed his thumb further in, then switched to two fingers, sliding them back until they struck the back of my throat and I gagged in reflex, leaning forward to take them in further nonetheless. My pulse throbbed between my legs; I was squeezing my thighs together rhythmically as I sucked on his fingers, desperate for stimulation. He noticed; a smile flickered over his face. Pulling his fingers out of my mouth, he wiped them off on his uniform tunic and said, "Strip."

This dress was far less complex than the other one; I had only to shrug it off my shoulders and shimmy my hips to let it fall to the ground in a pool of emerald silk. I wore nothing underneath, and toed off my slippers in an instant. Naked before him, I stood and let him look his fill. 

His burning eyes flared, noticeable in the dim light; he looked like a demon. I trembled with the desire to fall to my knees before him, but he hadn't ordered me to, and I sensed that he wanted total control of tonight's events.

"A work of art indeed," he said, and pulled off the other glove before touching me at last — even if it was only the slightest touch, tracing my clavicle with his fingers, stroking down my sternum to cup my breasts in his hands. His thumbs, delicately rubbing over my nipples; I made a small noise in my throat and squirmed, aching for a sterner touch. He stepped forward and pushed me back against the table, pressing one knee between my thighs, pinning me in place even as he continued to caress me.

"Like this?" he asked softly, taunting, knowing perfectly well it wasn't what I wanted.

"I thought you wanted an _anguissette_," I spat, gauging his interest with the instinct of years of Naamah's service; he wanted a little fight in me. "If this is all you want of me — "

Thrawn pinched my nipples as hard as he could and twisted them; the mingled shock of pain and pleasure jolted up my spine and I cried out, grinding myself against his knee.

"Oh," I gasped, "oh, please do that again — "

He laughed softly and obliged, pinching and squeezing and twisting my nipples until they throbbed and I was panting, rubbing up against him. He slid an arm around my waist and pulled me close, pressing his mouth against my neck with biting kisses; I would have bruises there later. All the while he still toyed with my nipple, pinching it between his nails.

He bit down hard at my throat where it met my shoulder, and a blossom of pain bloomed as his teeth broke the skin. He licked up the blood that oozed from the wound, then slid his hands down to my rear and picked me up bodily, moving me with ease onto the table. He was not a large man — taller than I, but so were most — but Elua! He was strong.

He turned me over until I laid flat on my belly, my stinging nipples pressed against the cool glass of the table, my toes barely touching the ground. He pressed a hand to the small of my back and held me there; I felt him watching me, considering what to do next.

"Stay there," he said. "Exactly like that."

I obeyed as he went to fetch something from across the room, my breath coming fast. I wanted to squirm against the table, desperate for stimulation, but he hadn't given me permission to do so. So instead, I waited, still as I could be, and panted with the strain of it.

Thrawn returned carrying something very familiar: a pair of cuffs with a length of wire attached to them.

"Do you know these?" he asked, holding them in my field of vision.

"Handcuffs?" I said, trying not to laugh. "Yes, I know of them, my lord."

"Stun cuffs," he corrected, and I had to shake my head. "Well, if your stories are true, you'll like them."

He clasped them around my wrists with military efficiency, going on his knees to tie the wire around the wooden leg of the table. I stared at him at eye level, wondering what he was going to do next. He met my gaze and smiled at me; the cruelty in it made me tremble.

"Very good," he said, standing up. "Pull on them, if you please."

I assumed he wanted me to check how sturdy his knot was, so I was not prepared for the electric flash of pain that ran through my entire body when I yanked on the wire as hard as I could. It seized my muscles in a painful rictus before it released me, and I laid shuddering on the table, sweat breaking out on my forehead.

"_Very_ good," he said with malicious amusement. "This is how it works: the more you struggle, the harder the shocks will be. If you need me to stop, say so by calling me by name, and this will be over. I believe you call it the _signale?_"

I nodded. He ran a finger down the arch of my spine, stopping right above my buttocks.

"_If_ your stories are true," he said, "I don't think you'll want me to stop."

I clenched my hands into fists and took a shuddering breath.

"I'm ready," I said.

"I know," Thrawn replied. But he continued to caress me, placing kisses on my marque, running his fingers along my ribs, making me squirm where I was ticklish. The stun cuffs jolted me slightly, barely more than a vibration, and I stopped moving with an effort. He wanted stubbornness; he wanted to break me. Well and so; he wouldn't get the satisfaction of truly breaking me — only Melisande had ever heard my _signale_, the word that stops all play — but he could certainly try.

"An interesting tattoo," he said, licking one of the scarlet petals of my marque. "It marks you as a servant of your goddess of whores, doesn't it?"

"Yes," I said, and had opened my mouth to say more when he slapped my buttocks with one hand.

I have said he was strong; he did not hold back when he slapped me, and the jolt of pain made me jump, tugging on the stun cuffs. This time, the shock was considerably more than a vibration, and I shrieked as it hit my body, quick as lightning.

"Oh," I gasped, "oh — "

"You begin to see," he said, and slapped me again.

Over and over, he hit me, an erratic rhythm that left me no way to gauge when the next blow was coming or to prepare for the jolt of the stun cuffs. I kicked and thrashed and begged as pain struck me, first from his cruel hands, then from the electricity of the stun cuffs as I tried to writhe away from his blows, and he just put his hand on the small of my back, holding me down, and continued.

It was glorious. Each time he electrocuted me, the crimson haze that was a mark of Kushiel's gift veiled my eyes, and each time he smacked me, pain that was pleasure that was pain coalesced further between my legs, until I was no longer begging for him to stop — without using his name, of course — and instead begging for release.

"That's what you want?" His voice was hoarse, much like mine, although I didn't think he had been doing any screaming. He kicked my legs wider apart; I heard the sound of a zipper. "_This_ is what you want?"

"Yes," I begged, "please, my lord, anything — "

"Beg me to fuck you."

Crude words; I had said cruder, in my time.

"Please," I wept, "please, will you fuck me, I want you, I _need_ you — "

Thrawn pushed inside me without preparation; I had no chance to wonder if his species even made love like humans did until he was fully sheathed in me. He was larger than any human male I'd ever had, and it hurt — ah, Elua! It hurt, and it was so sweet.

He thrust in and out of me, quickly establishing a punishing rhythm, and I screamed as I climaxed, jerking on the cuffs at the same time, electricity racing through my body as I clenched around him. His hand in my hair, tugging out the lover's-knot and fisting it tight, close to my scalp, sent waves of pain-pleasure through me.

I am skilled in the arts of dissembling, but not in the bedroom. Thrawn wanted me to want him, and I obliged him, begging for more in a broken voice until I felt him go rigid and shudder behind me, spending himself inside me.

Though it shames me a little, I was regretful that he had finished so soon.

But only for a moment, for he stepped around the table to stand before my gaze, and I saw through my tear-streaked vision that his phallus was still erect. It was almost human, larger in proportion than most, and with textured bulges along the sides that no doubt contributed to my pleasure.

"We're not done yet, Comtesse," he said, stroking my hair, and the sheer perversity of him using my title while I was bound and shaking before him made me shudder in climax without him touching me intimately at all.

"What next, my lord?" I asked in a hoarse voice as he bent to release me from the cuffs. My skin was red and bruised where they had been tight around my wrists; something clever in their design had protected me from electricity burns, but not from my own flailing.

"Next, Comtesse," he said, and I saw that in his hand was a length of dark fabric, "you close your eyes."

I do not like being blindfolded, but something about that very dislike is what makes it so sweet. He tied a tight knot, the Grand Admiral, and I knew the blindfold would hold no matter how I struggled.

"Hands behind your back, and hold them there," he ordered, guiding me to my knees. My buttocks throbbed and I ached all over; the electricity took much out of me. His voice took on a trace of amusement. "I don't have any ropes to bind you, so this will have to be a matter of honor."

I put my hands behind my back and clenched my bruised wrist with my other hand so hard I shook.

I knew what he wanted from me, so it was with anticipation and not surprise that I shuddered when he took my hair in his hand against and pressed my mouth against his phallus.

"Unlike human males," he said, "I don't have a refractory period. So please me."

You can be sure I put the entirety of my hard-won skills to use that night. He was bigger than a human, as I have mentioned, so my jaw ached to take him fully in my mouth; but I did it, and more besides, fighting my gag reflex as I took him down my throat, working him with lips and tongue and the muscles of my throat. I could taste blood and seed on him — my blood, and the thought aroused me intensely — and my tongue roved over the intriguing bulges, seeking out the spots that made him twitch. I had yet to earn a moan from him, but I was determined to do so.

He cupped a hand around the back of my skull and forced himself further down my throat, holding my head there, preventing me from wriggling away. I tried to breathe through my nose and take it as he thrust lightly into my mouth, but my nose was pressed into his belly and it was difficult. Behind my back, my hand clenching my wrist was shaking with the effort to keep from pushing him away. Such a strange thing, to be an _anguissette_, to want and not want at the same time.

I could feel his curiosity, and that same desire to see me break that so many of my patrons had. I would not give in.

Then he pulled me away by the hair and threw me back on the ground; my head bounced painfully against the metal floor and I cried out as I rolled onto my side. My throat and jaw hurt and I missed his touch already.

He joined me on the floor; I could feel his presence at my side as he took me by the hips and guided my rear into his lap, so I laid with my legs spread and him sitting between them.

"One last thing," he said softly. I felt the touch of honed metal against my inner thigh, and I began to weep.

"Do you want me to stop?" he inquired, and I shook my head forcefully, still crying.

He turned the blade and carefully, with exquisite slowness, made a thin slice on my thigh. He knew exactly how deep to cut, and how slowly to do it, too; he had done this before. Again, a parallel line to the other. My blood beaded on my skin and dripped down my leg.

Then he put his other hand between my legs, his thumb going unerringly to Naamah's pearl, the source of a woman's pleasure. I gasped, then cried out as he swirled his thumb around and across it, using my blood and his seed as a lubricant. Thrawn didn't stop, even as I twitched and begged, his blade laying against my thigh like a promise, coaxing me to higher and higher pleasures as I climaxed again and again, seizing like the stun cuffs were sparking me again. 

He kept going until it hurt, and then, just as I crested, he dug the point of the knife into my thigh.

I shrieked and lost myself in the exquisite crimson haze of Kushiel's gift.

I heard the blade clatter as Thrawn tossed it aside; then he was on top of me, his phallus thrusting inside me again, and I wrapped my arms around his torso and my legs around his waist and cried out his name.

There comes a point, for an _anguissette_, where there is no boundary between pain and pleasure; there is only sensation, and the glory of basking in humiliation and pain. I reached that point on that night, with Grand Admiral Thrawn.

But I did not give my _signale_.

* * *

When it was over, he took off the blindfold and escorted me to the refresher, steadying me with a hand on my elbow. It was courteously done; indeed, I have known more impolite treatment at the hands of D'Angeline lords. He left me there, returning only to bring a medpack with bacta for my injuries.

I refused.

"I want to keep them," I said, not bothering to explain that the resultant pain as they healed would leave me sated for days. His eyes flared again at that; he liked the idea of me wearing his marks. "Thank you, my lord admiral."

"You are welcome, Comtesse." His eyes raked me over, speculative. "Does Melisande know you're coming for her?"

"She was the one who invited me to find her," I murmured, and Thrawn's lips curved in a smile.

"Very like her," he said. 

After I dressed myself, moving slowly with my aches and pains, he handed me a data cylinder.

"The coordinates," he said. "As I promised."

I held onto the cylinder, meeting his eyes.

"If you play me false, my lord," I said, "you can count on Terre d'Ange's aid to your cause to be withdrawn."

"I know," he said, an eyebrow arching. "Melisande is an ally, but she is not worth more to me than six planets' worth of supplies."

What must it be like, I wondered, to be so ruthless as to throw away your allies like they were chess pieces to be discarded?

Melisande would know. They were well-matched, these two.

"Thank you," I said again, meaning it.

And clutching the data cylinder in my head, head held high, I turned my back on the Grand Admiral and left to hunt down a traitor.

I felt his eyes on my back even when I had passed out of his sight. They wouldn't leave me until I was off the _Chimaera_ and safely on _Naamah's Dove_. And the memory of our time together cut deeper than even his eyes.

But then, I thought he would remember _me_ for a long time, too.


End file.
